


Said He

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Choices, Established Relationship, M/M, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Rodney thinks, doesn’t get it.  This shouldn’t be as earth-shattering a revelation as it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Said He

John, Rodney thinks, doesn’t get it.

This shouldn’t be as earth-shattering a revelation as it is. John doesn’t get _lots_ of things. John doesn’t get just how quickly Rodney’s mind moves, the thousands of permutations already weighed and measured while John’s still chugging away and Rodney declares _x_ or _y_ or _hello, imminent death, how I have not at all missed you one bit._ John doesn’t get the beauty of Doctor Who—and right then, Rodney almost thinks _heathen_ and calls it off, because really. Doctor Who. How can you not… ?

Anyway.

Rodney is well aware that John doesn’t get many, many things. He’s even come to the somewhat awkward realization that he, Rodney, also doesn’t get things. Inconsequential, useless things, usually. Like why Teyla is frowning at him yet again and oh, god, does he have to do the forehead-hugging thing to make her not-mad at him? He’ll do it, of course. He just won’t get why.

But Teyla loves him anyway, so Rodney’s okay with that.

And he keeps getting off track.

Oh! Right! Rodney grins in a way that is supposed to be reassuring but, given John’s very blank expression, is probably more like maniacal. Which doesn’t matter, because now Rodney gets it. He gets all those things John _doesn’t_ get. And he’s going to do something about it right the fuck now.

“Sorry, Teyla,” he gabbles to her frowning features. “I’m very sorry you’re mad, but I just figured something out and I really need to go take care of it right now.”

Teyla’s frown quirks into amusement, which has Rodney thinking in Monopoly metaphors he abhors. They’re John’s damned metaphors! Not Rodney’s! But Teyla is smiling, now, and the dark clouds of disapproval have lightened into benevolent understanding. “Very well, Rodney. Although I believe you could lighten your grip on Colonel Sheppard. I’m not sure he can breathe.”

Rodney tightens his grip in John’s shirt collar. “If he breathes, he’ll throw me off,” he says, very seriously. “That’s not good. I have to tell—no, _show_ him what I just figured out.” He offers John his _oh god, oh god, so very awesome_ smile, the one that John once called beautiful. Or at least, Rodney thinks it was the smile that earned the praise. They were both insanely drunk at the time.

Like now. Well. Rodney is. John’s been play-drinking all evening, the way he does sometimes when he’s worried or being stupid. The two go together remarkably often.

Teyla looks indulgent now, which means Rodney’s free of the forehead-hugging. The impasse, however, is letting John get _notions_ as he tries to wiggle out of Rodney’s grip and that’s just not on. Doesn’t he get it that Rodney’s _got_ it, now? That it’s—it’s like divining the math of a rainbow or a ZPM or why Brahms is the superior composer and why Mozart is mostly sort of a hack that got away with undeserved praise. It’s _beautiful_.

“… should go with him, Colonel,” Teyla’s saying over Rodney’s shoulder.

John is—thankfully!—agreeable. “Pretty sure I’ll lose something if I don’t,” he drawls, but the look he gives Rodney is not pleasant at all.

That’s okay, though. Rodney knows how to make him pleasant.

“Yes, yes, permission all around.” He’s babbling and okay, maybe he _is_ drunk, but who cares? John is coming when Rodney tugs, following him despite the awkward angle and how sweaty Rodney’s palms are. “Because I am just so, so smart and you’ll see. Well, you won’t,” he adds to Teyla and Ronon, who watch with indulgent expressions; they’re worse than Jeannie, sometimes. “You probably shouldn’t see at all what I—”

“McKay!”

“Oh, fine, yes.”

They’re about halfway through the corridor, Rodney thinking happy thoughts that all come tinged with _finally_ , like he’s gotten rid of all the disgusting lemon and orange jolly ranchers and now there’s only strawberry and grape and all the flavors Rodney loves best—blue! He really loves blue, and oh, right, another tangent, which leads to _ow_.

Rodney stares at his reddened, still sweaty, empty hands. “Ow. Did you have to be so rough?”

“Other than you were choking me, since you forget you’re actually shorter than I am? Might be nice, McKay.”

“Rodney. Not McKay.”

John doesn’t let his eyes skitter back and forth over the very empty, very public hallways they’re walking in but he doesn’t need to. Rodney knows him well enough to know the man has peripheral vision like _Batman_ and he knows damned well they’re alone with no one even in hearing distance. So mostly he’s just stoney-faced and annoyed because he wants to be.

Rodney grabs John’s forearm. He’s mildly surprised he actually makes contact long enough to establish an Indian burn level hold. “Look, I know you think I’m drunk and I’m certainly not going to deny that I’ve burned off far, far too many brain cells for us to survive the next Us versus Armageddon, round fifty! But sometimes there really is truth at the bottom of a bottle, or maybe that’s courage, I don’t know but.”

John’s still wearing his blank mask but his eyes widen fractionally. “You talk _faster_ when you’re drunk. How did I not know that?”

“Because normally you’re drunk right along with me. Don’t make me say _duh_ , Sheppard, it betrays my far too many years in California where I developed very bad habits about surfers.” And oh, that’s _not_ something Rodney’s ever wanted to tell John, the eternal California surfer boy no matter how little time he’s actually spent on that section of the Pacific, so he says, “Please?”

The quotient of the fractions gets bigger. “Uh. Sure. Rodney, I’ll. Where are we going? It might be better if I steer.”

“That’s very helpful of you, thank you. I’m glad to see you don’t miss out on everything.”

John doesn’t understand that, but when Rodney says he wants to go to their quarters, John obligingly uses his forearm to somehow tuck Rodney firmly against him. Rodney is grateful for that. The world is starting to spin, just a little, and the strength of his understanding beats against the back of his eyes like blood pumping too fast. Rodney’s breathless with it, so eager that the litany of _room, room, gotta get to the room_ drowns out everything else in his mind.

Well. Not so much that Rodney doesn’t figure out that John thinks he’s being _gallant_. And that yes, okay, maybe he is being gallant in handling his drunk boyfriend. Even gentlemanly as he makes it look like Rodney wouldn’t actually fall down if he let go of John’s arm. That’s… nice.

But it’s wrong, too.

It’s a feat of will and strength of self that Rodney’s not really sure he possess to do it. But Rodney does. The minute they’re safely inside his own quarters, he employs a move that Ronon would be proud of and _slams_ John back against the wall, pinning his hands firmly while insinuating his hips between John’s legs with a sinuous little shimmy that has both of them gasping.

Here, finally, John lets the mask crack just a little, jaw hanging loose as he begins to pant. “What the—Rodney!”

“I told you,” Rodney says. “I get it, now.” He gets it so much that he’s swaying with it, rocking with it, driving his cock into John’s over and over as his hips move with a smoothness he’s never quite managed before, lips wet and hot right over John’s pulse. “I get it.”

John’s wrists are thick, the muscles cording against Rodney’s palms as he instinctively tries to struggle. But Rodney is strong, much stronger than John ever really remembers, and right now John isn’t to _move_. He’s to stay there, pressed up against the wall, red-faced and gasping while Rodney teases him with his tongue and his teeth, etching patterns on his skin that’ll be visible in the morning god _damn_ what anyone else thinks. And all the time Rodney’s thrusting against him, rocking and rolling and driving himself wild. He can feel John harden, feel that moment when heat goes to lust, that extra thrum of passion making them both sweat as John gets thicker, and harder, and rises up to meet Rodney’s eager, steady movements.

“Yeah,” he breathes and bites down, hard. “Come _on_.”

John still doesn’t get it, though. He moans, a low, guttural sound that’s almost a grunt, and the tail of it is immediately swallowed. He smiles, a little—Rodney knows what that feels like against his temple, the way it bunches and rasps—but that, too, disappears after a bare second. “Mc—Rodney, what are you.. ?”

Doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get _anything_. It makes Rodney wild with it, using all his weight to shove John further into the wall. He’s sloppy, now, trading dirty, sucking kisses with the kind of love-bites John likes but usually doesn’t approve of. He still doesn’t, Rodney knows, but also, Rodney doesn’t _care_. John likes them, and Rodney loves the way John’s skin throbs against his teeth, the vulnerability that has nothing to do with weakness because he’s not interested in hurting John. Just tensing, pressing, _biting_ until that sweet ache of almostalmostalmost blinds him in a red haze of pleasure.

Rodney looses himself in that, keeping John so exquisitely pinned while he pulls out every single god damned trick he can think of, until—

John’s gasp is low and rough and damn near soundless. Rodney recognizes it anyway.

John _arches_ and Rodney’s ready, moving with it until the friction is hotter, each rub of their bodies sweeter. “Fuck,” John moans, softly, then, “Fuck, _fuck_ , Rodney—!”

If he were someone other than Rodney McKay he’d say something like _shhhhh_ and _I know, I’ve got you_. These are the things John’s half-hoping to hear, because the dopy dork also happens to be an incredible romantic in bed.

But he’s Rodney. And now, now he understands.

Rodney licks right at the base of John’s neck, frotting so hard they’re both going to have firction-burns on their bodies. He doesn’t care. John is shivering and shaking and so hard he feels like iron against Rodney’s stomach. They’re both panting like bellows, twisted around in the musk of sex and lust and fierce, overwhelming passion that Rodney’s not slackening by an iota. It has to be more, to be faster and harder, until John just let’s go, his entire body trusted to Rodney’s as he moans—out loud, _aloud_ , low and long—going completely limp as he comes and comes and comes.

Rodney thinks, _Mmmm._

When John finally reconnects with Earth, he still can’t stand up on his own. Rodney keeps him braced and upright, smirking into eyes that are a nicely muddy, sex-glazed, brown. “Wha,” John says, then stops. His mouth is red and swollen from kissing and he looks _fucked._

Rodney’s pretty sure he’s never looked like that before. Fuckable, yes. Hot. Sexy. Desirable. Even sated. Rodney’s seen him look like all of those things, and more.

But never so thoroughly fucked.

Swallowing, John tries again. “What was that?” he asks, slowly and carefully. His eyes aren’t really focusing and Rodney decides now is about time for round two.

“I figured it out.” He waits until he’s sure John can support his own weight, then leans back onto his own heels. Taking John’s hand is stupidly romantic, but Rodney can’t help it. “I’m a little appalled how long it took me, to be honest. Some genius.”

John grunts something questioning and half-falls onto the bed behind Rodney.

“I mean, I knew you were okay with it. Regular sex, who wouldn’t be? And you seem to be okay with me.” That’s… perhaps a little too insecure, especially since Rodney feels very, very secure, so he concentrates on stripping John bare. Each article is removed slowly: it's like unwrapping a present every time. “But really, to not figure it out… I’m not actually as clueless about other people as I’m accused of, you know.”

Still kind of needy. By now John is naked, gloriously naked so Rodney can see every whorl of hair, every inch of skin he wants to lick and suck on—starting with the reddened areas on John’s belly and thighs. Ouch. He doesn’t want to contemplate his own fairer, more delicate skin. The best distraction, then, is to lean down and softly kiss the inflamed area better. All over.

John sighs in a certain way and Rodney knows that the glazed acceptance from before is over. He’s thinking again. “I don’t think you’re clueless,” he says, threading a comfortable hand into Rodney’s hair.

It’s difficult not to rub up against John’s palm like a cat; the man has _talented_ fingers. “You realize I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought you did? Hip bones are very good places to suck, so Rodney does.

“Mmm. Wanna tell me what you _are_ doing?”

Briefly cursing Socrates and the teasing he’s now he’s going to be in for, Rodney lets his own very talented, and oft-praised, fingers out to delicately trace over the groove of John’s body, where torso meets hip and the skin is so sensitive that John almost prefers to be scratched than tickled. “What do you want, John?”

That clearly isn’t what John’s expected. His expression is open and disconcertingly young, now, almost naive in his confusion. He’s propped up on an elbow, frowning in a way that’s foreboding to everyone else Rodney’s ever met.

Not to him.

Rodney trails open-mouthed kisses over hot, sticky skin, licking away the discomfort as gently as he can. His hands, meanwhile, don’t stop their movement, petting over John’s sac, flicking each ball within just to make John shiver—hard—eyes spinning under the sensation.

“What do you want?” he asks again.

John is panting, again. Hot, heaving breaths that shake the whole bed as his body runs away with his mind. “Wha—”

Sucking on a forefinger, Rodney lets it slide south, curving past curls that vanish into nothing but hot, smooth skin as he flirts—and it is flirting, if an unusual kind—where John is most sensitive. He can come just from having his perineum scratched in the right way, which Rodney is avoiding so he can tease and torment and drive John crazier.

“What do you want?”

“I—I don’t—oh, chirst, _Rodney_ —” 

A stupid thing. A stupid, telling, stupid thing and it’s taken Rodney six months to notice. He hates John’s former lovers quite a bit. “John. What do you want?”

“I—kiss me?”

Rodney abandons his efforts with a groan, rearing up so he can find John’s mouth—bitter with sex and, is that blood? It might be, and Rodney traces John’s tongue, his lips, the insides of his cheeks, searching for that elusive bitten cut so he can lave and soothe it better.

It takes him a very long time to find it.

“What do you want?” The words come out breathless, but Rodney doesn’t mind. John is all warm, solid muscle beneath him, and his hands are in Rodney’s hair. “Tell me—”

“I haven’t been, huh? Is that what this is about?”

Okay, so maybe Rodney forgets that, while John doesn’t get a lot of things, he’s not _stupid_ , either.

John offers a twisted smile, freeing a hand so he can trace Rodney’s mouth. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, I don’t want you to—”

“I know. I get it, okay? I get it. I just… ”

Rodney doesn’t want to hear if John forgets or if he’s never known, surging forward to kiss the words from John’s mouth so he never knows their meaning. The kiss stretches out after that, long, lazy movements of touching that feels almost like a warm afghan, settling over them.

“Um. Not that I don’t love what we’re doing,” Rodney murmurs. “But… ”

“You mean that’s not a banana in your pocket?” John also enjoys incredibly bad jokes when he’s amorous. Rodney would care about it a lot more if John didn’t regularly follow those bad jokes with his hand closing soft and perfect around Rodney’s cock, stroking up until he can thumb over the head with the steady, back-and-forth motion of a man who enjoys touching for touching’s sake, not at all that it makes Rodney’s brain spin right out of his skull.

That’s just a bonus.

“You know what I’d really like?” John says.

That snaps Rodney back to attention. “Yeah?”

“I’d really like to fuck you until you come,” John says, and if his voice breaks a little over the word ‘fuck’, well. That makes it even sexier.

“Please tell me you did not honestly think I’d say no to that.”

John quirks a brow, already reaching for the slick—his arm is so _long_ , perfectly defined and highlighted by the dark shadows over his forearm—and pushing Rodney down onto his stomach. “Ask me again without the double negatives?”

“Oh, will you just—”

“No,” John whispers, breath hot as it feathers over Rodney’s ass. “I knew you would say yes.”

Rodney still has a million questions, starting with _if you knew the answer then what the hell took you so long to ask the damned question_ and ending with promises to do serious damage to his wife, whom Rodney has decided is the mostly likely culprit. But John’s fingers are slick and huge inside of him, twisting until Rodney sees stars.

And really, he doesn’t need to ask the question. John’s got it, now, figured it out and that’s answer enough.

Rodney whimpers when John finally slides inside of him. He’s stretched, but it still hurts a little, sparking pain that he’s grateful for since he doesn’t actually want to come just from John sliding into him. It’ll make the man insufferable. But as John begins to rock, not smooth or steady but to a rhythm only John the Tuneless hears, Rodney flings a hand out towards his back.

It’s caught immediately, and Rodney squeezes tightly to John’s fingers.

He’s not a romantic. Not like John is, and if he wants to, he could tell himself that this to make John feel even better. It will, after all.

But this is all for Rodney because finally—he gets this, too.


End file.
